Natalie shouldn’t have found that funny. She shouldn’t have laughed when she was sitting on a bathroom floor feeling awful.
But the image of powerful, intimidating Carter Sullivan calling his housekeeper in the middle of the night for pregnancy tips was too absurd not to appreciate.
“You called your housekeeper at 2:00 a.m.?” she asked.
“I heard you get up,” he said. “Thought you might need…” He gestured toward the tea. “This.”
“That’s unexpectedly thoughtful for someone who thinks I might be lying about the baby,” she said quietly.
The words hung between them.
Carter’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t look away.
“I don’t think you’re lying,” he said carefully. “I think I need to be sure. There’s a difference.”
“Is there?” she countered. She took another sip of tea, grateful for something to do with her hands. “Because from where I’m sitting—literally sitting on your bathroom floor—it feels pretty similar.”
He exhaled slowly.
“Three years ago, a woman named Vanessa Hartley told me she was pregnant,” he said. His voice went flat. “She brought ultrasound photos, cried in my office. I believed her. Supported her. Started planning a future.”
Natalie’s stomach clenched, and this time it had nothing to do with nausea.
“The pregnancy was fake,” Carter continued. “The ultrasounds were someone else’s. She was being paid by a competitor to distract me during a crucial merger. By the time I found out, the damage was already done. The deal fell through, my name was dragged through every business paper in the country, and I looked like a fool.”
“Carter,” she whispered.
“So yes,” he said quietly. “I need to be sure. Because I have two siblings who depend on me, ten thousand employees whose livelihoods are tied to this company, and I can’t afford to be fooled again.”
He finally met her eyes.
“But that doesn’t mean I think you’re lying,” he said. “It means I’ve been burned before, and I’m cautious.”
The explanation should have made her feel better. It did, in a cold, logical way.
But it didn’t change the fact that he was comparing her to a woman who’d betrayed him. That he was investigating her. That he couldn’t just trust her.
“I’m not her,” Natalie said quietly.
“I know,” he replied.
“Do you? Because it really doesn’t feel like you do.”
